Facing the Laelaps

Calm down! He doesn't go! 
But he won't lose neither
 Himself anymore ... 
To life will he always 
Be your inspiration. 
You 'll be drifted by him! 

To the  thief Laelaps  wouldn't

Offer  a victory. 
He didn't need you that way. 
Laelaps was so jealous 
With fierce heat to grab you! 
Now he doesn't care at all ... 
There aren't really only 
The hands that need to touch, 
Or the body that craves ... 
There is the heart delight. 
In the name of moments, 
You intensively shared. 
He needs you even so. 
In his bizarre species
Special is the contact  
With your existence 
It will be comforting. 
Acknowledge this to him.
 You allowed this to him.
 By simple tender pity.
You heard him miserable
 To howl like a wolf 
In his desert evenings. 
What a tyrannic remorse!
He slowly realized 
The bitter truth ... 
You tried to reach him 
Tragically against
Your own destiny.
 Here are they paid
All those crimes, however. 
An obol to him too
Soon or later (alas!)
The brutal Laelaps.
Shall demand as well.


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laelaps_(mythology)

Laelaps, the dog in The Death of Procris, Piero di Cosimo

Laelaps the dog who never failed to catch what he was hunting once had to catch the Teumessian fox that could never be caught. But Procris lay among the white wind-flowers, Shot in the throat. From out the little wound The slow blood drained, as drops in autumn showers Drip from the leaves upon the sodden ground. None saw her die but Lelaps, the swift hound, That watched her dumbly with a wistful fear, Till at the dawn, the hornèd wood-men found And bore her gently on a sylvan bier, To lie beside the sea,—with many an uncouth tear. Austin Dobson: Old World Lyrics.

Laelaps the dog who never failed to catch what he was hunting once had to catch the
Teumessian fox that could never be caught.

But Procris lay among the white wind-flowers,
Shot in the throat. From out the little wound
The slow blood drained, as drops in autumn showers
Drip from the leaves upon the sodden ground.
None saw her die but Lelaps, the swift hound,
That watched her dumbly with a wistful fear,
Till at the dawn, the hornèd wood-men found
And bore her gently on a sylvan bier,
To lie beside the sea,—with many an uncouth tear.
Austin Dobson: Old World Lyrics.